


you impressed upon my shapeless hunger

by hesperia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hesperia/pseuds/hesperia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Dacey Mormont becomes more than just one of Robb Stark's personal guards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The parchment felt as heavy as the mace she carried into battle. The Greatjon had handed her the scrap of rolled parchment with glassy eyes, and she'd known the news was not good. For a moment she'd thought of Lyanna on Bear Island, and when she'd read the words, Bran and Rickon dead at the hands of Theon Turncloak, the guilt from the relief she felt weighed heavy in her stomach. 

"Seven hells..." Greatjon had said, sitting down, looking older and more tired than he had in the last ten years. "I'd best go to the boy." He offered her a cup of wine but she shook her head.

"I'll go," Dacey said, rolling the parchment back up. "We need to be ready for what ever he chooses to do. You'll see to it?" 

The Greatjon nodded, squeezed her arm, and Dacey saw something in his eyes, a mix of regret and pride, as he left her. She thought of her own sisters, and of the overwhelming sadness that bubbled in her at the thought of losing even one of them, let alone two. She remembered Bran and Rickon Stark with fondness from the times she had visited Winterfell with her mother and sisters, Bran's earnest smile and Rickon, still a baby then but a happy one. 

She came upon Jeyne Westerling outside of the chambers, a trencher of steaming meat and vegetables in her hands. "There's been news of Winterfell, it is not...good news." Dacey took the trencher from Jeyne. "I'll take this to him." 

Jeyne looked wistfully at the door, and then back at Dacey, but nodded, and she was thankful that the girl had not protested. She was in no mood to argue with a heartsick girl at a time like this. She had heard the rumors that buzzed throughout the Crag, that the Young Wolf had taken a liking to his nursemaid, that he'd even taken her to his bed. Dacey knew that was unlikely, because for all he looked like his mother's family; his tall, stocky build, his thick auburn hair, there was more of Ned Stark in him than anything else. 

Another reason to keep the girl away from him, thought Dacey. He may be Ned Stark's son, but he was still just 16, barely a man grown, and it was said there was little better comfort to a man in his time of need then a fine pair of breasts and warm, wet cunt. Dacey knew this, she had been that comfort more than once to a man, and if she had to be that comfort again, for her King, she would do it. 

She knocked confidently on the door, and pushed it open. Robb was sitting up in the bed reading a book, and he looked up at her with a surprised smile on his face. "Your Grace," she said, closing the door behind her. 

"Lady Mormont," he said, addressing her with teasing affection. "I was expecting Jeyne, but I'm glad to see you." 

He calls her Jeyne so easily, Dacey thought, perhaps those rumors are not so wrong afterall. She sat the trencher down on the table and went to stand next to the bed, leaning on one of the four posters, the message in her hand felt as though it was burning in her palm, and she knew that she could not put it off any longer. 

"There's been news of Winterfell, Your Grace," she said, her mouth felt dry and she wished she'd had the cup of wine the Greatjon had offered her earlier. 

Robb's face fell at the mention of his home, and the change in him, from the boy to the King was surprising to her. She reached out and handed him the paper. She wanted to look away, could bearly stand to watch the pain as it settled heavy and deep on Robb's face, but she stood her ground, hands fisted in the heavy velvet of her tunic. 

He looked up at her from the scrap of parchment, and shook his head, his eye wet with tears as they pleaded with her, begging her to tell him it was the worst kind of jape. Dacey felt her own eyes thick with tears, and she blinked hard. This was not a King in front of her, not now. It was just Robb, a boy from her childhood, a boy whose brothers had been killed by a man who had been his closest friend. 

"Get my tunic," Robb said finally, as he pulled himself out of bed, wincing as he jarred his shoulder. "We need to move on Winterfell. I'll rip Theon's throat out with my own hands." 

Dacey brought the tunic over, but she didn't offer it to him. "We'd lose Riverrun if we went North," she said. Her words were a harsh truth and Robb's jaw clenched. "You know it as well as I do."

"He killed my brothers! You want me to sit by and do nothing as he sits in my chair and slaughters my people? I am their king!" he shouted, and he had never more looked so much like his father than in that moment. 

"Then be a good King!" Dacey shouted back, "One day we will march on Winterfell, and we kill Theon Turncloak, but do not let your hatred cloud your judgement." 

Robb pushed past her, grabbing his tunic, cursing as he tried to pull it over his head, his shoulder still imobilized from the wound. "Seven fucking hells!" he swore, throwing the tunic down. Dacey had moved to stand in front of the bed, watching him with wary eyes. She'd spoken rashly but she did not regret it, she knew she was right, and if his outburst was any indication, he knew she was right also. 

"Robb..." She hadn't used his name like that in a year or more, and it felt strange on her tongue. He turned to her, his shirt askew, a small bloom of blood spreading into his shirt through his bandage. 

"I am King in the North," he said angrily, walking over to her, standing to meet her eye to eye. "Why do I feel so powerless?" 

Dacey sighed, her hand reaching up to stroke his face, the tips of her fingers running along his hairline, into his curls. "You are not powerless," she said, softly, stroking his cheek, his beard coarse and springy against her fingers. "You are the undefeated King in the North." 

"At what cost?" He stepped closer, his hand covering her hip while he leaned him against her, their foreheads pressing to one another. 

"This is war, Robb," she whispered, her mouth hovering over his. "There will always be a cost." They kissed hungrily, Dacey's tongue in Robb's mouth, her bottom lip caught between his teeth when he nipped at her. She did not think Robb Stark had kissed many girls, but there was a readiness to his kisses, like a long slow pull from strong Dornish wine, thick and heady. 

Her fingers grabbed at the front of his breeches, fingers pulling on the leather laces as she loosened them; her hand sliding down into the breeches, under his smallclothes to wrap her hand around his cock. Robb let out a strangled moan, and he pulsed in her hand when she ran her hand along his length, her grip tight but warm, and his mouth was on her jaw, breathing deep and heavy against her skin. 

"I can't..." Robb said, though he made no move to pull away from her touch. "I won't dishonor you like this." 

Dacey laughed, and caught his mouth. "You know nothing, Robb Stark," she said and ran her thumb over the weeping head of his cock, rubbing over the sensitive ridge on the underside. Robb groaned, and pushed his hips against her fist, clearly wanting more. His hand was still on her hip while his fingers dug into her skin, hard enough to leave bruises that she knew she'd find later. His other hand was in her hair, dragging over her neck and down to cup her breast roughly through her tunic, squeezing her hard. 

"I might fight better than most men, Robb Stark, but I'm still a woman," she teased, and she put her hand over his, manipulating it, showing him how to touch her softly, gentler than he had before. 

"Take this off, " Robb growled, his hand pulling at the bottom of her tunic. "Please." 

She let her hand slide off his cock, and he huffed out a breath at the loss of her touch. His face was flushed and he pulled off his own shirt as she did the same, and they stood before each other in only their breeches, Robb's hanging loose around his waist, his cock pressing obscenely against the front. Without pause she took him in her hand again, and his hands went to her breasts. 

He was a quick learner, and Dacey hummed lightly as his palms ran over her nipples. "Like this?" he asked breathlessly, his thumb and forefinger rolling one of her nipples between them. "Do you like this?" 

Dacey smiled and nodded, tilting her head to the side to give his mouth access to her neck, and he dragged it hot and wet along her skin. It was only when he bit along her collarbone did Dacey feel a flush of heat swell inside her. She pushed him away slowly, draggin her hands up his stomach, smooth and taught, despite his recently illness. 

"Come," she said, taking his hand and walking him to the bed. She stripped out of her breeches then, and he did followed, until they were both naked. Robb's hand reached out and cupped Dacey between her thighs, surprising her as his other hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer. So there is some wolfsblood in him after all, she thought, and she let him lower her to the bed. 

He groaned as he moved over her body, but it was not in pleasure, and Dacey knew it was his shoulder that was bothering him. "Here, lay on your back," she said, and she moved over so that he might lie down next to her. 

"But..." Robb looked at her, his eyes dark with lust. 

"There's more than one way to lay with a woman," she said to him as she climbed over his lap, straddling him. "You know that much don't you?" Her voice was teasing, and she dropped her body over his, her hair falling around them as she kissed his lips, soft tiny pecks that turned into longer, deeper kisses as she rocked above him. His cock was trapped against her, and she tilted her hips to drag her cunt along his length, and she was unsurprised at how slick she was, how easily she moved along him. 

"I know more than you think," Robb growled, his hands coming back to her hips, pushing up hard against her. "I'm not a boy."

That's exactly what you are, Dacey thought, but she didn't tease him further, she was too distracted by the ache in her cunt, the surprising need to have him inside her. This was supposed to be about him, to distract him, make him feel like the man they needed him to be, the King they needed him to be. Her hand moved down between them, settling herself over him and sinking down. 

He didn't last long, only a few minutes as she rolled her hips above him. She hadn't though he would, and she climbed off of him, slipping under the blankets next to him, her long legs twining around his. Their heads rested along each other, and over his chest, Robb held her hand in his. 

"I think I'm well enough to ride," Robb said, after a long while of silence. "We should make for Riverrun in two days time." Dacey moved to sit up, but Robb's arm slipped around her. "Stay for a while? I said two days...you've no where to be, do you?" 

"No..." she said warily. This hadn't been part of her plan, not that she'd really had a plan to begin with, but comforting a fellow solider in need at the end of a battle, and comforting a King in the confines of his bed chamber suddenly felt rashly different. 

Robb pulled Dacey back down, fitting her against his side, his arm under her neck and around her shoulders. "Is it too much of a jape to say thank you?" asked Robb quietly, against her hair. 

"No, it's definitely not," she replied, and pressed a kiss to his chest. "and you're welcome. And you're bleeding again." She sat up again, despite Robb protestations to look at the bandage. It needed to be replaced with a new one. 

"Leave it," Robb said, pulling the blankets up over them, but they were both too hot and kicked them off only a minute later. 

"If it gets infected you'll lose your arm," Dacey said, trying to be serious, but Robb laughed.

"So I'll be a one armed King." His hand was dragging along her spine, fingertips rolling each bump. 

"How would you defend yourself?" Dacey asked, letting herself melt against him slightly, his fingers tickled softly against her skin.

"I have you, don't I?" 

It was a jape, and they both laughed, but there was a flicker in Robb's eyes that Dacey couldn't read, something she hadn't seen in the other men she'd lain with, and it was unsettling. "You still have to marry the Frey girl," Dacey said, and she felt Robb tense against her. "It's your duty, Robb. You need the Neck, which means you need the Freys, and the sooner you marry her, and get a babe in her belly, the sooner we can all rest a little easier trusting Walder Frey."


	2. Chapter 2

It's been raining for days when Olyvar Frey comes to the tent Dacey shares with her mother. He bows sweetly, and tells Dacey that "His Grace requires your presence in his tent, my lady. If you are not otherwise engaged, that is..." 

Dacey nods to him, and tells him to tell the King she will be there shortly. 

"Do you know what you're doing?" 

Dacey turns sharp on the ball of her foot, looking hard at her mother. "What do you mean by that?" 

"You know well what I mean, girl" Maege says, looking up at her daughter. "He might be the King, but he is still a young man who'd rather think with his cock then with the head that wears the crown."

Dacey stands in the doorway of the tent, her hands at her sides. "He seeks my counsel, mother, that is all. He knows the value of my contributions. Do you not think that I hear what they say, the snide remarks and cutting glances, even as we fight side by side. I may wield a sword better than most of them, but I will always be a woman, and that will always work against me. Except with Ro...the King." 

Maege stands and joins her daughter, and stroked a hand over Dacey's cheek. "The others may not see it, or they choose to not to, but I see the way he looks at you." Her face eyes are softer, reminiscent. "I see the way you try to keep him at a distance, but your eyes betray you, my girl." 

Dacey steps out of her mother's touch. "I shouldn't keep him waiting." 

She doesn't wait for Maege's response, but leaves the tent, heading across the camp to where Robb's large pavillion sat. Her mother's words ring true, and Dacey's mood has darkened because of them. Since the night Dacey had comforted him at the Crag, Robb had come to her but once.  
 _  
"I can't stop thinking about you," he had said, his eyes dark, his hands tight on her hips. "Your mouth." He kissed her, long and deep. "Your teats." His mouth travelled down her neck, pressing his face into the crease between her breasts. "Your warm, wet..." His voice had trailed away, one hand sliding from her hip to cup her mound obscenely over her breeches. His mouth found hers again, and Dacey felt her resolve crumbling._

_"We can't..." she said, pushing him away, both of their mouths soft and swollen from one another. "We shouldn't."_

_"I am King," Robb said, his fingers rubbed over her cunt through her breeches._

_"And I am not your Queen."_

_Robb stepped back, his hands falling away from her. "Is that what you want? To be Queen?" He dropped to one knee in front of her. "Do you want me to bend the knee to you?"_

_"Get up, you're being ridiculous." Her face flushed, he was so close to her, his face close to her belly she could feel the heat of his breath through her shirt._ Damn him, _she thought,_ I am Mormont of Bear Island, one of a long line of women warriors. I make my own choices, I bow to no man save the King. _Except her King was on one knee before her now, his fingers pulling at the laces of her breeches, yanking them down her legs._

_He pressed his mouth over her cunt though the thin material of her smallclothes, and Dacey inhaled sharply, her hand dropping down to curl into his hair. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, looking up at her seriously._

_She should tell him yes, but her mouth couldn't form the words, her head couldn't nod, and she pressed her fingertips into his scalp, pushing him back upon her. He laughed, deep and throaty, and pulled her smallclothes down, helping her to step out of them. He widened her stance with his shoulder, pressing at her thigh as his mouth kissed over the downy hair that covered her._

_The first swipe of his tongue was hesitant, giving away his inexperience, and she felt him breathe out heavily for a moment before licking at her in earnest. His mouth worked over her eagerly, his tongue thick and warm along her folds; he pressed his face hard against her, working his tongue into her as far as it would go. Dacey's legs were shaking, and she leaned back along the center pole of the pavillion, to steady herself._

_Robb's face was slick with her wetness when he looked up at her, eyebrows raised questioningly, his eyelids heavy. Dacey was breathing hard, but she nodded her head easily now, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she smiled at him. Her release came up on her quick when he put his mouth back on her, her hand on his chin, guiding his mouth up to her nub._

_"There," she said, her hand still on his face. "Right there. Yes. Robb...." Her words caught in her throat, her climax hard and fast, and she pushed his face away when the sensation of his mouth and beard were too much, her hand covering her cunt. He'd rubbed his face on the back of her hand then, nuzzling at it, smearing her hand with her own juices._

_"You're obscene..." she said, a smile on her face when Robb stood up. He looked pleased, a self-satisfied smiled on his face. "And cocky, apparently."  
_  
She had taken him in her mouth that night, had watched him fall apart under her hands and mouth; and held him in her arms, his head on her breast, his arms holding her tight in his embrace and she'd told herself that would be the last time. 

Yet here she is, walking to his tent with his marriage to Roslin Frey imminent upon the morrow when they reach the Twins. The idea of waiting to marry one of Walder Frey's daughters until after the war had come and gone. With each battle, Robb went into it without an heir, a thought that put all the Northern Lords at unease. 

She smiles briefly at Olyvar Frey before slipping into Robb's tent, finding the Young Wolf sitting beside a brazier, a half empty wine skin in his hand. His eyes are glassy with drink and Dacey feels a tinge of regret for coming so quickly at his request. She knows this will not end well. 

"Your Grace," she says, standing in front of him. Robb frowns, as if put off by the formal greeting, and Dacey suppresses the need to roll her eyes. "Robb," she says, correcting herself. 

"I told Olyvar not to bother you if you were..."His voice is slow, his words careful with consideration for the choice of each. "I have not disturbed you?"

Dacey shakes her head, and Robb nods, but does not speak, not for a long time, just staring into the brazier that Dacey thinks perhaps he has fallen asleep with his eyes open. When he does speak, his word are neither slurred nor slow. 

"Tell me not to marry her and I won't."

 _It is the drink talking,_ she tells herself. _That and the cold feet of a man about to wed to a half-pretty daughter of a lord he despises._ "It is not so simple as that," she says instead.

"Do you think so little of me?" he asks, standing up. He is as tall as she now, if not a bit taller, and it does not like there is much boy left in Robb Stark, but he is still only sixteen, sometimes even Dacey forgets that. His hand reaches out to cup her hip, but Dacey steps away, out of his grasp and the hurt on Robb's face is palpable. "I will never be able to care for her as much as..."

"Stop." Dacey's voice is loud inside the pavillion, but the pouring rain outside seals them from the rest of the tent, drowning out her words. "Tomorrow you marry Roslin Frey, you will give the North a queen, and in time an heir. Let that be your focus, Robb. You still have a war to win, or have you forgotten that?" 

Robb's jaw clenches tight, and his eyes are dark as he picks up the wine skin, drinking the rest of it, half of it dribbling out of his mouth and down his chin. He curses, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and throws the skin into a dark corner of the tent. 

"Do I have your leave to go, Your Grace?" Dacey asks, as Robb sits down hard in the chair behind his desk. The brazier is warm on her side, but there is a chill that has settled around them. 

"Do what you please, that's what you She-Bears do isn't it?" His tone is derisive, baiting and Dacey's anger bursts hot in her chest, twisting deep. She stalks over to him and pushes him back into the chair, her hand pressing hard on his chest just inches below his neck. 

"How many times have I saved your life?" she asks, her voice hard, fingers digging into his skin. Her anger is consuming, and all she can hear in her mind are the things his men have said in battle, when they knew she was listening or not. She has borne them all, has used them to her advantage, to prove them wrong because she knew Robb has never thought so little of her, has never thought her contributions worthless, until now.

He struggles to push her off, but the drink has made him weak and sloppy in his defense, and his attempts prove futile. 

"How many?" she yells again.

"Once at least, at every battle," Robb says, defeated, and he sags in the chair. Dacey's hand slips away from his chest, ashamed for her outburst, but Robb is standing suddenly, backing her into the tall chest that stands behind her. 

"I am King," he says, his voice low, his hand taking her chin roughly. "I am your liege lord, and you will never put your hands on me again," His face is close to hers now, obscenely close, and she can smell the wine on his breath, can feel the heat from it on her face. "Unless I ask you to." 

His kiss is rough, violent in its need, as if he is trying to suffocate her and consume her in one breath. His hands are on her wrists, pinning her against the chest, his hips pressed along hers, holding her down. Despite the warnings screaming in her head, the moan that escapes Dacey's lips is pure need, and her fingers itch to grasp his shoulders, to pull him closer.

"Robb, stop," Dacey whispers, and he stills, his grasp on her wrists loosening. "It's too much of a risk, Olyvar is right outside." 

Robb groans, "I know..." he says, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek, rubbing a thumb over her bottom lip. "We'll be quiet." His kiss is softer the second time, more tender than earlier, and Dacey relaxes against him.

She undresses quickly, slipping into Robb's bed as he snuffs out all but one candle in the tent. He makes quick work of his own clothes, climbing in next to her. His body fits snugly beside hers, his chest warm on her back as he pulls her body to him, his mouth pressing soft and wet along her neck. 

He slips into her easily, and Dacey has to bite down hard on the flesh of her thumb to keep from crying out. Robb's breath his hot on the back of her neck, and he slips an arm over her waist, holding her tight. 

Later, they lay in the dark of the tent, the candle long since sputtered out. Robb hand twines in Dacey's hair, and he weaves pieces of it through his fingers. "It will not be like this with her," he says, though Dacey's not sure who he's telling, himself or her. 

"No," she says, after a long while. "She'll be a maid, Robb. You'll..." she pauses and sits up, the furs falling away. "You have to be kind to her, gentle, slow." 

His hand falls from her hair, running up and down her back, along her spine. "Is it bad, the first time?" he asks though they both know he means _her_ first time. 

"Just be patient,"Dacey says, "be patient and she will be grateful for it." She lies back down, her head resting on Robb, her face resting on where his shoulder and chest meet. She hates how frustratingly easy it is to fit into the spaces where his body ends and hers begins; how simple life seems in these quiet moments. 

Dacey knows that if she were to close her eyes she could dream that they were not the people they were, the people they were born to be, that tomorrow would not bring him a wife that is not her, and the days that follow would not see more battle. In that dream Dacey could sleep soundly, wondering if it will be this time that his seed quickens in her womb, but Dacey prefers not to think of those things, instead she thinks of battles, and moon tea, and when she does sleep, she wills herself not to dream. 

The following night the Great Hall of the Twins is crammed and packed, and Dacey shifts uncomfortably between Smalljon Umber and Patrek Mallister. It's still raining outside, but inside the air is warm and stuffy, and stinks of sweating bodies and barely digestible food. Despite the horrible taste it leaves in her mouth, Dacey sips the sour, watered down wine. In front of her the plate sits untouched, the jellied cow's brain now cold and congealed. 

Barely a meal fit for the pigs, let alone a King Dacey thinks, stabbing listlessly at her plate. From where she sits, Dacey can just see Robb and his new bride, Roslin. They share one cup, and one plate, and she watches as Robb cuts the meat with his knife, feeding it to Roslin. He plays the part well, laughs with his new good-brothers, smiles sweetly at his good-sisters, and even leans in to press a chaste kiss to his new bride's lips on occasion. 

"Can I have that if you're not goin' to?" Smalljon asks, and Dacey nods, pushing the plate towards him. The players have taken up again, and the trestle tables begin to clear, making way for the dancing to begin. Robb and Roslin dance awkwardly, and Dacey thinks they might as well have stood on separate sides of the room for how far apart they are. 

"Fancy a dance, Lady Dacey?" Edmure asks, as he walks up to her, holding out his hand. She offers her hand, and lets him lead her to the floor, slipping one arm around her waist as the other holds her hand close to his chest. "You look very beautiful tonight," Edmure says, as they twirl around the floor. "More beautiful than the Frey girls," he whispers against her ear. 

He's had more than his share of wine tonight, and Dacey knows she should tell him not to be so fresh, but before she can, she catches the look on Robb's face, his eyes staring right at them, his jaw set, his mouth in a grim line, and Dacey can't help but cling a bit tighter to Edmure. 

After that she dances with Smalljon Umber, and with Edwyn Frey, spinning and laughing around the room, until suddenly Robb is there, his hands in hers. "You seem to be enjoying yourself," he says, as they move throughout the room, weaving their way between the other couples. 

"I am, Your Grace," Dacey says, and she spins under his arm gracefully, the tips of their fingers barely touching as they move down the line, turning to move away and then back to find each other again. "And you?" 

"I think you know." 

"She seems very sweet."

"And simple." 

Dacey frowns, and she thinks to chastise him, but Lord Walder is standing, waving his ancient hand for the players to stop playing and for the bedding to begin. Before Dacey can even say anything, they pull Robb away from her, a large group of Frey women circling him like vultures as they help him out of his clothes. 

Across the room, Roslin is crying, the drunk lot of men pulling at her dress, hands 'accidentally' grazing over her, and Dacey looks over at Catelyn, who had come to stand next to her when Robb was being pulled away. 

"Will he ever forgive me for this?" Catelyn asks, as they watch the scene unfolding in front of them.

"He doesn't blame you, he knew there would be costs with this war." 

"Dacey..." Catelyn's hand is warm on her arm, comforting, but there is something in her eyes akin to pity, and despite the respect she has for Catelyn Stark, it irks her, and she pulls away from her touch. 

There is a growl, loud and fierce, and they both look up to see Greywind standing between Robb and Ryman Frey. 

"I'll not have that beast in the room with my aunt!" Ryman says, his hand going to the pommel of his sword, Dacey's own hand went to her hip, and she felt her stomach flip at the emptiness it found. Catelyn's hand clenches on her arm now, and she looks at the woman, her eyes wide and frightened. 

Robb's jaw is tight, and Dacey can see his eyes are dark with anger, but he flicks his head at Greywind, and the wolf growls in protest. "Greywind, stay."

Graywind snaps his teeth in Ryman's direction but he turns, walking through the crowd as it parts, and stops, lying down in front of Dacey's feet. There is a tension that settles thick and heavy over the room, and Dacey can feel her face flushing, can feel every set of eyes upon her. She wants to run, and she shifts on her feet, but Catelyn's hand digs into her arm deeper. To leave would only raise brows, would leave questions to form in Lord Walder's mind. 

It is the Greatjon who breaks the tension, his loud voice boom, a bawdy joke about Robb's manhood that turns the attention back to the bedding, back to Robb and Roslin. The nausea Dacey felt earlier at the meal has returned, and she shakes free from Catelyn's grip. 

"I'll take my leave now, Lady Stark," and Dacey turns without Catelyn's response, pushing her way through the crowd, Greywind loping along behind her, growling at the crowd as they went. 

The rest of the castle is mostly deserted, and Dacey's grateful for the silence, though she can still hear the faint sound of the drums from the hall. _He'll be bedding her now,_ Dacey thinks, climbing the stairs to the tower where all of Robb's host is being housed. _Or at least he'll try, if he can get her to stop crying..._

In her chamber, Greywind jumps on the bed, turning several times before settling down, his large body taking up half the bed. Dacey smiles, she can't help it, and she crawls into the bed next to the wolf. "You've got a temper as bad as him, you know," she says, scratching Greywind behind the ears, her fingers sinking into the thick grey fur as she stills her hand, lets her eyes drift closed as sleep approaches, but she laughs when Greywind pushes his cold, wet nose against her cheek, as if to remind her that he's still there, and there is a comfort in that Dacey did not expect.


	3. Chapter 3

"She will be fine, Your Grace," Edmure Tully says, as Robb paces back and forth across his audience chamber. "Take your mind from it, we need to discuss the Wildling packs your bastard brother has let through the Wall." 

Robb's eyes dart to his uncle, "Take my mind from it? My wife lies in a bed of blood, birthing my son and you ask me to take my mind off it? Get out!" 

Edmure pauses for a moment, but Robb takes a step toward him and Edmure bows, dramatically, and stalks out of the chamber, the door rattling hard behind him. Robb sighs, and he looks to Robbett Glover, "Go after him?" 

Robbett nods, leaving Dacey sitting alone at the table. She tries to think of the kind words Catelyn Stark would have given her son, the soft reassurances that came with birthing five of her own. But Lady Catelyn is gone, killed in Roose Bolton's attack on the Twins while Robb had marched to Deepwood Motte. Smalljon Umber is dead too, along with a good number of Robb's bannermen who had stayed to guard the Queen. Roslin would have died too, if not for Edmure sneaking her out, and in doing so he had left his sister to die. 

"He is still grieving the loss of your mother," Dacey says, finally. "As we all are." 

If Robb hears her he does not respond, but stands looking out the window, down into the yard. A serving boy enters with a tray of food, and Dacey motions to the table. The door of the chambers stays open, and Roslin's screams can be heard, though distant and far away. Robb flinches with every sound, and Dacey shooes the serving boy from the room, shutting the door behind him. 

"Perhaps you should go to her," Dacey says, and she presses her hands flat against her sides. They long to touch him, even now after so much time has passed; she wishes she could go to him, hold him, comfort him, but that is not her role anymore, if it ever was. 

"But Maester Luwin..." 

"Is not the King." 

Robb is quick to move across the room, but pauses in the open doorway. "Thank you." 

Dacey eats silently the food the serving boy brought, and guiltily she wishes she was back at Bear Island with her mother and sisters. _It is so much harder than I thought it would be_ she thinks as she ships the last of the sweet Arbor wine in her cup. _So much has changed since then, I thought perhaps...but it hasn't, it isn't easier._

In the yard she finds Arya sparring with Rickon, Bran and Hodor watching on with amusement as she joins them. 

"Your sister fights well, Lord Bran," Dacey says, thoroughly impressed by Arya's form and balance.

"A Bravvosi swordsman taught her in King's Landing..." he says, and Dacey can see the longing in his eyes to join his siblings, despite how hard he tries to hide them. "Before Joffrey killed Father." 

It did not surprise Dacey that Ned Stark would have hired someone to teach Arya to wield a sword. She thinks fondly of Ned Stark, remembers all the times she had come to Winterfell with her mother, how she had longed for a father as kind and as loving as he had been to his children. _How lucky they were to have him, if only for a little while._

"Will the Queen die?" Rickon asks, as he and Arya finish sparring and join them. He climbs easily into Dacey's lap, and she forgets sometimes, that he is only five this year. "Like Mother?" 

"No," Dacey says, slipping her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. "Lady Roslin will be fine, childbirth is a bloody business, no matter what. And soon you will have a nephew." 

Rickon's face wrinkles, not altogether excited about the prospect. "But he'll be a baby, and he can't play with us, or practice with us."

"Eventually he'll be grown, and you can teach him all the things Arya is teaching you," says Dacey, as she bites her lip to stop herself from laughing. Her answer seems to placate Rickon, and he slides from her lap, whistling for Shaggydog. 

The wolves come running into the yard together, Shaggy and Summer and Greywind. They are larger now than ever, almost grown now according to Maester Luwin and the books he's read in the library. If Arya misses her own direwolf, Nymeria, she does not show it, but lets Greywind lick her face while she scratches softly behind his ears. 

"You aren't frightened by them," Bran observes, and Dacey shakes her head, holding out her hand to Greywind. He licks at her fingers, and pushes his nose against her leg before dropping his head into her lap. 

"Greywind and I have fought many battles together," Dacey says, stroking the wolf's fur. She feels the fur rise too, feels Greywind tense under her hand, and then the bells of the sept begin to ring, clear and loud throughout Winterfell. Greywind moves quick like lightning, taking off before they can call him back and Arya looks to Dacey with worried eyes as they see Maester Luwin walking quickly along the covered bridge. 

"It is a girl!" Maester Luwin shouts down to them, leaning out the open window of the bridge. "The Princess of the North!" 

Down in the yard, everyone is yelling and hollaring in excitement, and Dacey exhales a breath she hadn't known she was holding. 

They name the baby Bethany, after Roslin's mother, and the castle is in an uproar of planning and preparing for the feast that will honor the new Princess, and somehow Dacey is called on daily by Maester Luwin. 

Dacey finds herself being asked to decide on meals and bedding for the guests who arrive, more and more each day, and while she finds the tasks easily accomplished, she knows she will need to brief Robb on all that they have decided.

She finds him in his late mother's solar, now Roslin's, though the Queen is not with him, only little Bethany, who lies sleeping in the ancient weirwood cradle. The one she's told has held over a hundred Stark children. 

"She's beautiful," Dacey says, reaching out stroke Bethany's cheek with her finger. She is a little thing, with soft brown hair and light blue eyes, and a tiny sweet nose like her mother. 

He sits down next to the cradle, his hand lightly touching her head. "She is isn't she? She doesn't really look like me though," he says, in a half whisper, but he doesn't meet Dacey eyes when he says it. "I thought she'd have red hair." 

"Her eyes are blue like yours," Dacey says, hopefully. "And she has your chin." 

"I didn't look much like my father, either," Robb continues. "but Jon did, people used to say so, and I always wondered if Father wished I looked more like him."

Dacey puts her hand on his arm and he looks up at her. His eyes look tired and the skin beneath them darker than when she'd seen him last. Against her better judgement she reaches for him, touches her palm to his cheek and feels a warmth travel up her arm when he leans into her touch. He turns his head, presses a kiss over the soft skin on the inside of her wrist and the warmth she feels turns to fire, and it burns, rushing straight to her very core. A reaction so sudden and so unexpected that she takes a step back. 

"I'm sorry," he says when he stands. He reaches for her hand but Dacey hold it close to her side, and she shakes her head. 

Robb seems to understand what she means, and he drops his hand, turning his body back to the cradle, his hands resting on the foot of it. "So Bran will be my heir after all."

Dacey snorts derisively at him. "Of course, Gods forbid you leave Winterfell to your daughter."

"It is the same reason I do not name my sister as my heir," Robb says, his voice stern. "I would not have that Lannister Imp rule as King in the North when I am gone. Nor would I want any man who marries my daughter to either. A Stark must always rule Winterfell." 

"And will your daughter stop being a Stark when she marries? Could she not rule in her own right?" 

Robb sighs and turns to her, there is no fight in him these days and Dacey misses it. "This is not Bear Island."

"Well that is one thing we most certainly agree on, by your leave, Your Grace," she turns on her heel, making her way to the door when he calls her name. 

"Dacey, please." His voice is low so as not to wake the babe, but it is a command nonetheless. 

She does not turn and go to him, but waits until she hears his footsteps on the slate floor, until she feels his hand, warm and tight on her upper arm as he pulls her, albeit willingly, around to face him. 

"Maester Luwin..." he begins, but pauses and looks back at his daughter for a moment. "Luwin says Roslin may never bear a child again. It will take time to know, but it is likely that Bethany shall be the only child I have." His hand slides down her arm to grasp her hand, and she lets him this time, doesn't pull away from him, despite how much it aches to have him touch her, they are so close and yet such strangers. "You could bear me a son." 

At first she thinks to laugh, at the outrageous nature of his request, but there is an ignorant earnestness to his face, a seriousness. "An ill-timed jape, Your Grace..." she whispers, warning him. 

"You're healthy, and strong, I know you could give me a son, an heir." 

Dacey's blood is boiling, and the idea is so appalling to her, so unlike the Robb Stark she thought she knew that she feels nausea bubbling in her. "You presume too much, Your Grace," she says, angrily. "You think to make me the King's Whore, and legitimize your bastard as your heir? 

There is a flash of anger in Robb's eyes now, and Dacey pushes aside the thrill she feels when she sees it, that perhaps there is still something left of the boy who was once Robb Stark, but she is not willing to give into that thrill. 

"He wouldn't be a bastard!" Robb argues. "I would..."

"You would what?" 

"I would put Roslin aside. If she cannot bear me an heir she is no good to me." 

Dacey laughs, bitterly. "Sometimes I forget just how young and how stupid you truly are, but I never knew you were so cruel, Robb Stark." 

The anger in his eyes has not dissipated, but there is a sense of hurt now as well. Dacey knows that his age and inexperience has always been his weak spot, his truest fear, and if her anger did not cloud her judgement so readily, she might have kept her mouth shut. "Forgive me, _Your Grace_ ," she says, correcting herself. 

She stands, walking to the table by the hearth. "And where would you have me lie back and think of the North? Here on this table where your Lady Mother once wrote letters?" 

"Stop."

She ignores him, taunting him further. "Or perhaps in your audience chambers, so that all the council may watch?" 

"Stop." She can hear his anger now, through his clenched jaw. 

"Or perhaps," she says, with a slight pause. "Perhaps the Queen would not mind if you took me on her bed, right next to her."

"Enough!" Robb yells, slamming his hand down on the table. "Enough!" 

Bethany starts to whimper, not crying really, just startled from the noise. Dacey goes to her, rocking the cradle gently as Bethany yawns and gurgles, her tiny eyelids fluttering closed. 

It is the better part of 10 minutes that Dacey and Robb sit silently together, though Dacey will not look at him, cannot look at him, but she feels his gaze on her. It makes her skin itch and ache to feel his touch again and when she feels his hands rest on her shoulders she wonders if he knew. 

"You would not put her aside," Dacey says, her hand still in the cradle, Bethany's fist wrapped around her finger. 

"No," Robb says, and he kisses the top of her head, a gesture that is so intimate yet seems so easy between them. "I wouldn't." 

He pulls her up softly, and she let's him take her into his arms, her head resting along the curve of his neck, pressing her nose against his jaw. "I think it would be best that I return to Bear Island," Dacey says, and she feels Robb tense underneath her. 

"Best for who?" he asks, and there's an almost panicked look in his eyes. "I need you here."

Dacey laughs, almost bitterly. "I am the last thing you need here, Robb," she says, and she pulls out of his embrace, moving to sit at the desk by the window. 

"Roslin has no interest in the realm, in the North. I cannot speak to her of anything, all I get is shrugged shoulders and half smiles." 

"That is why you have a council, to help you make those decisions." She pours herself a drink from the decanter on the desk, but the wine is sour in her mouth, and she chokes it down as Robb comes to her, takes her hand in his, dropping to one knee. 

"I cannot tell all my fears to my council, I cannot ask my council to tell me what to do when I do not know what to do, they would see how desperately I cling to this crown that is falling through my fingers at every turn. Do you remember what you told me, in the Crag, that night when we thought Bran and Rickon were dead? You told me to be a good King. I cannot be that King without you."


End file.
